


wrapped in red

by floweryfran



Series: a motley crew [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Pepper Potts, Depressed Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker Friendship, Hurt Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark Coparenting Peter Parker, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Protective Pepper Potts, Supportive May Parker (Spider-Man), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, it hurt me to write, its also sooooo long sorry, pete and harley go through the ringer, sad babies, this was sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: It would be Peter’s and May’s second Christmas without Ben.The first, he had spent in a ball beneath his bedsheets, ignoring texts and calls from Ned and MJ and Mister Stark, his door closed to everyone and everything except for May, who held him while he lay like a cast of himself, unseeing and unfeeling, putting her own grief on the back-burner to help Peter through his.Christmas was their holiday, his and Ben’s and May’s. And now that Ben wasn’t there to spend it with him, all Peter could feel was his absence. Christmas songs beat to the thrum of the funeral march as Ben’s coffin was carried to the front of the cathedral. Christmas lights twinkling were the spark fading from Ben’s eyes as he bled to white in Peter’s arms. Pine was the wood of the box that sat rotting under six feet of earth, a last breath, a whisper of a man inside.He was not looking forward to this Christmas. The break, yes. No work, absolutely. Spending time with May and his friends, sure.Christmas, however? No. No, Peter did not like Christmas all that much.





	wrapped in red

**Author's Note:**

> quick warning for angst & sadness & some depressive spiraling thoughts because why the heck would /i/ write a happy christmas fic?? hehe anyway enjoy

A sanctuary of peace.

Slanted December sunlight filtered through tall, boundless windows, shrouding the East side of the tower in a honeyed glow, setting every dust mote alight like a soft ember and singing the sweetest of hymns— the type that would leave the seraphs and muses themselves tongue-tied.

The living room was as quiet and calm as it had ever been: the couches vacant (a sign it had been a good night for the residents of the tower); the television silent and reflecting back the high-saturation sunrise; pillows and blankets strewn across the floor with the scattered remnants of an abandoned game of Monopoly; someone’s gun on the coffee table; the floor-brushing linen curtains dancing in the slight puff of warm air that came from the vents. 

And the kitchen: the refrigerator door thrown open, emitting an unnaturally blue light across the room; water roaring out of the faucet of the sink, splashing off of dirty dishes and onto the windowsill; two greasy plates on the counter beside two half-drank glasses of orange juice; and in the middle of it all, two crazed boys with pillow-flattened hair and layers of bags beneath their wild eyes, socked feet slipping on the hardwood floors, gesturing wildly as they whisper-shouted at each other as to not wake anyone else at this unreasonable hour.

Ah, yes. Peace.

“It’s seven o’clock in the morning. You’re not having _vodka_.”

“But it’s mixed with hot chocolate! That automatically makes it breakfast!”

“ _No_ ,” Peter said firmly, grabbing the handle from Harley’s grasp. The boys grappled over it for a second longer before it slid from Harley’s fingers. Immediately Peter turned so that he could shove the bottle into its designated spot— a rack on the door of the fridge. Peter closed the doors and spun, splaying himself against them, arms spread wide and a manic glint in his eye. 

The two stared at each other, gazes unwavering, for a long moment. A challenge. A show-down. Neither were willing to lose. 

Harley, because he was desperate for something- anything- that would get him through the day— the last day of the semester before a fiercely needed winter vacation. He was staring into the eyes of two written exams, an oral exam for French, and a lab practical for his Advanced Chemistry course but it felt as if he were peering into the barrel of a loaded pistol. 

Peter, for one: because he didn’t want Harley showing up to school buzzed when he had worked so hard to prepare for his exams. The two had been studying for weeks, swiping through endless stacks of flashcards and reciting review guide questions until their brains turned to mush and they were unable to sleep at night for the stress. They had spent so much time practicing together that Peter had been able to pick up the basics of conversational French from Harley and Harley could recite the most important European fronts of World War II even better than Peter could, though Peter was the only one taking Modern American History.

But also because of the obvious reason: it was _illegal_ and Peter, at least, tried to uphold some semblance of a moral compass when he could. 

They weren’t even seventeen yet, for crying out loud. If Tony found him out— or, worse, if _Pepper_ found him out, Harley would be done for and Peter would be incriminated as an accomplice, and that was just about the worst predicament he could imagine being in. 

Disappointed Tony and Pepper were almost as bad as Angry May. All of them made his stomach churn and his eyes water (Peter was a crier and probably always would be). They threw him hopelessly off-kilter when they were anything but happy. So, he strove to always keep them satisfied: tried not to scare them _too_ badly when he went on patrol; did his schoolwork when he could and had Tony and Harley help him when it became too much to handle on top of patrolling, or injuries, or the unexpected and irregular bouts of panic and exhaustion he had been bouncing between for weeks now and couldn’t seem to dig his way out of. 

He had found himself dozing on the subway, in Calculus, leaning against the wall of a bathroom stall. Everywhere other than in his bed at night. His eyelids were constantly heavy, his thoughts slower than a lazy river— nothing like the rapid-fire stimulation he usually fostered. And yet he pushed through it- even though he felt like he needed to hold his eyes open with pliers and pinch at the skin of his hands to keep himself conscious- so that they would be happy. 

Really, by the transitive property, he could argue that all of the pain was therefore to make himself happy, too. 

Okay. That was a reach.

But if the Concerned (Adoptive) Relatives Alliance for Peter (or, as Peter referred to them, ‘CRAP!’) were happy, then he should be happy too.

Right? Right.

So, he wouldn’t let Harley be reckless and impulsive at seven-oh-two on a Thursday, no matter how naggingly a little piece of him itched to be equally impulsive so that, just for a moment, they could both be normal teenagers with an average burden on their backs rather than a super-sized one. 

Harley finally acquiesced, blinking his red-rimmed eyes and muttering, “you’re no fun, this is why God has forsaken you.”

“I _heard_ that.”

“I know, that’s why I said it out loud instead of just thinking it.” Harley flipped the faucet off. The quiet that descended was startling. Not exactly peaceful.

Harley’s cheeks were pink with blush. He rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. Nervous. 

Embarrassed. 

He hadn’t expected Peter to notice him spiking his hot chocolate. He figured if he did it quick, one heavy-handed tip of the bottle, then he would have a free ticket to an anxiety-free day, some genuine, light-hearted laughter, and a reprieve from the exhaustion that weighed so heavily upon his back that his knees quivered from the strain of shouldering it.

Peter could tell that Harley was stressed. Of course he could. And he understood, too, the appeal of drinking something that would make him relaxed, happier, calmer. It was tempting even after Peter had stopped shielding the refrigerator doors from Harley. 

Peter just. Understood it.

After all, he and Harley could read each other cover-to-cover without stumbling over a word. 

In the weeks that had passed since Harley had learned about Spider-Man, they had grown closer than ever— Harley’s voice a comfort in his ears during patrols, helping him laugh and, if he was lucky, reading to him; Peter braving the mortifying possibility of having a nightmare and inviting Harley to sleep over at his and May’s apartment, Harley clambering up to the top bunk and leaning over the edge to shoot Peter one of his crinkle-nosed grins right before nodding off (and Peter subsequently having the best night of sleep since his sophomore homecoming night over a year earlier); Peter sneaking his camera out during patrols, in the lab, during hangouts, in the lunchroom- anywhere he felt was important- and taking clips of the city and people that Harley had fostered a burgeoning affection for, compiling them into a video overlaid with Harley’s favorite songs to gift him for Christmas. 

Something sharp about them had worn away and they simply _got_ each other better than anyone else had ever understood them before. They fit.

“Well,” Peter said quietly. “I know me saying it won’t help, but it’s just today. Just today to get through and then we have two weeks to play Mario Kart together and train with Nat-” something they had both begun to do regularly- Peter, because he needed it to stay safe on patrols, and Harley, because he was enamored by Natasha and her admittedly enticing hot-and-cold disposition- “and smear icing on each other while we build the most structurally stable gingerbread house that has ever existed. I mean, we’re two engineering miracles. How hard could it be?” Harley didn’t smile, but the corner of his lip twitched. “We just have to get through this one last day, Harls. We’re almost done. I promise you can do it,” Peter said.

Harley gnawed on his lip. “That’s the problem, though. It isn’t _just today_. As soon as we go back to school next semester, it’ll be more projects, and more college searching, and more studying for exams. We have finally hit that point in our lives where nothing is ever going to _slow down_ again, not even for a minute-” Harley pulled on his hair- “because as soon as high school ends, we’ll get internships- real ones, not Tony ones- and go to college, and then graduate college and get PhD’s, probably, knowing us, and then work until we’re so old that we can’t unbend our arms because our joints will be so stiff and arthritic.” Harley didn’t finish the statement with the worry that had plagued him since learning Peter was Spider-Man: _if you even make it that far_. 

Every day Peter threw himself into danger. A death wish. A suicide trap. 

A crippling sense of responsibility for everyone and everything that was going to run him into the ground and bury him beneath layers of sandy earth.

He could die before they had a chance to become crotchety old men together. And that was the scariest reality in all of Harley’s life. 

“And… and, I know, we’re supposed to be kids, we’re not supposed to be chewing ourselves up worrying about this yet, but-” Harley broke off with a bitter laugh. “Look at us, Pete. Look at us and tell me we’re still kids.”

Peter looked at him sadly. _I can’t do that._

“You can’t,” Harley confirmed aloud. “You can’t because we’re not. We look like we just got out of prison, all sunken eyes and wasting away. I don’t want to live like this, Pete, I don’t. I _can’t_.”

Peter nodded fiercely, a tainted look of relief spreading on his face. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said, voice thick. “I thought it was just me. Everything is moving so fast and it’s… getting real hard to hang on.”

“Yeah.”

“At least we-” Peter broke off, his cheeks turning pinkish- “at least we have each other. That’ll make it easier.”

Harley felt something disgustingly, odiously mushy in his chest. The kind of thing that made him want to reach an arm out, grab Peter and yank him into his chest, holding him there to shield him from the acridity of the world, for nothing _nothing_ should be permitted to blight something as sweet and pure as sunshine and summer rain (and Peter Parker).

“Yeah,” Harley said, voice catching. “At least we have each other.”

They walked to school from the subway station side-by-side that morning, the way they always did: arms thrown carelessly around each other’s necks, sharing one pair of earbuds between the two of them. The air was dry and cold enough to bite at the tips of their fingers and their noses; enough to ache in Peter’s bones along the ghosts of old injuries; enough to make their teeth chatter and their breaths fog up and encourage them to walk faster for even school was a lesser evil than the frigidity of a New York winter.

“No snow yet,” Harley commented as they walked. 

“Do you like snow?” Peter asked, looking up. 

“I mean. On Christmas, yeah. But once Christmas has passed then it is blasphemous, abhorrent, and loathsome.” Harley’s nose wrinkled in disgust, his glasses slipping down the bridge of it.

“Interesting.” A beat, then subconsciously, “ _I need to make a flashcard for abhorrent_.”

Harley blew out a breathy laugh. “Why do you ask? Do you like snow? I bet you love snow. Oh, God, I bet you’re one of those people that gets all teary-eyed when it snows, waxing poetic about how _magical_ it looks on the skyscrapers and how _winter hasn’t really started until it snows_!”

Peter grunted a bit, scratching his nose. 

“That is criminal, Parker. Do you still love snow in March, when the city dust and street piss turn the snow brown and grey and everything gets coated in a layer of ice? Because I, for one, have a sense of self-preservation, much on the contrary to you, and therefore I prefer to _walk_ rather than _Slip N Slide_ my way through the city.”

Peter mumbled something under his breath, the sound of his teeth chattering muffling it. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“You’ll have to say that again. Not all of us have super special spidery hearing,” Harley teased.

“I said _oh, it’s a Kelly Clarkson Christmas song that came on the playlist_ and, wow, isn’t she just the queen of Christmas albums, jeez, that voice, that instrumental layering, the production value on this song is just-” he gave an exaggerated chef’s kiss- “beautiful.”

Harley frowned. “That is definitely not what you said, nor is it related to the snow.”

“Hi, MJ!” Peter yelled suddenly, breaking away from Harley and the good-natured reaming he was being subjected to in favor of talking to anyone but Harley. 

Harley chuckled to himself and shook his head, following Peter like a lost puppy.

MJ was sat on the steps leading up to the entrance to the school, book in hand and eyebrows cocked in an unimpressed glare. When she heard Peter’s call, however, and found the two bundled boys in her sightline, she felt the corners of her lips flick up of their own accord. She could deny it all she wanted, but those boys were about as good as good could get, and who was she to prevent a little _good_ from entering her life?

She lifted one hand in greeting, huffing as she pushed herself to her feet. 

“Hi, MJ,” Peter repeated once he was facing her, hands buried in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes and a half-grin on his doofus face. He shone like a beacon against the slate grey sky, glimmered bright amongst the undulating crowd of couldn’t-care-less students; he was the tinkling of sleigh bells and the sweet stripe of cocoa across his upper lip after taking a deep, languid sip. He was the light of all the stars compounded into one lanky, poofy-haired body as if he were a dandelion in the wind and just standing before him made every knot in MJ’s stomach- every ounce of trepidation that the stress of finals might cause her- dissipate as if it had never been there in the first place.

“Hey, losers,” she said dryly, though her heart sang like Christmas choirs.

“Morning, MJ,” Harley offered with a playful salute that MJ regarded aloofly for a long second before turning back to Peter. 

“Ned already off on vacation?”

“Yup! Visiting family in the Philippines. He is so lucky to be somewhere warm right now,” Peter said, rubbing his arms with his hands to generate some heat.

“Did you study enough for our Politics final? I can quiz you. I know you were nervous about the Federalist papers.”

Peter nodded aggressively, his hair bouncing against his forehead. “That would be- that would be great, thank you. I really tried but it’s just so difficult to follow complicated political theory when it’s written in _ye olde English_.”

MJ appraised him. “Which Federalist paper first discusses factions?”

Peter wrinkled his eyebrows together in a look of deep concentration. “Ten?”

“Good. Five points for Peter.”

Peter grinned widely. 

“Like giving a goddamn dog a bone,” Harley whistled. 

Peter shoved him, but kept a fist around his jacket sleeve to catch him when he nearly toppled over so Harley knew he didn’t mean it. Harley slung an arm around each Peter and MJ- the former of whom leaned into the embrace but the latter of whom wiggled out from under Harley’s shoulder with a half-hearted scowl ( _come on, Lydia Deetz, cheer up: two days ‘til Christmas!_ To which MJ replied _I don’t romanticize bastardized capitalist holidays_ , which shut Harley right up)- and they set off to scale the rest of the stairs together. To face the beast side-by-side. Strength in numbers and all that.

It was a long day. The longest day any of them could remember. Every second was suspended in a cascade of thick honey, dripping listlessly from the mouth of the bottle in droplets and then not at all, the space between drops the equivalent of spiritless purgatory as it stretched, lingering unforeseeably.

They sat through exams until Harley’s head spun; delivered speeches and presentations until MJ’s voice was rough from overuse; called upon their memories and their logic as fiercely as they were able until Peter’s eyes watered and ears pounded from migraine and his hands shook and nausea sat in a lump at the back of his throat that wouldn’t sink no matter how forcefully he swallowed against it.

When the final bell rang, instead of giving an excited _whoop_ , everyone slid down in their seats as if they’d been drugged and just _crumpled_. Their eyes shut with overwhelming relief, exhaustion taking them as their adrenaline melted into puddles in their sneakers. There was a period of nearly a whole minute where no one moved, simply relishing in the fact that they had reached the end of the line. Then, one at a time they rose and drifted like wraiths from their classrooms, filed out of the polished double-doors and back into the crisp air, and made their way home to finally rest.

Harley and Peter met at Peter’s locker, far too fatigued to acknowledge the presence of the other with more than a grunt. When their gazes met, they were both unsurprised to notice the sallow exhaustion of the other. Harley looked as if he had been punched swift and firm on each eye, as if he had been painted with Monet’s oil paints in all the shades of his water lilies. The color had drained entirely from Peter’s face, his oft rosy cheeks wan and soft as the full moon, shining mellowly along the edges with a sheen of sweat. 

For a moment it seemed as though they might comment on it. Inquire on the state of the other.

But that was useless. They knew they were both spiraling down to rock bottom.

Yes, their exams were done for the semester. They had done all they could, for now. But their earlier conversation plagued them, ran rampant in their minds like trapped bees that did not cause damage so much as incessantly buzzed, a vexatious symphony that they dare not chase away for fear of being stung. A few days of rest, and then a lifetime of perpetual exhaustion as deep as this one. _No rest no rest no rest_.

Peter sighed heavily and tucked himself into the crook of Harley’s shoulder, pulling the taller boy along by the hand. 

The cold air washed over them like baptism, like rebirth, like they were clean again. They could forget the pain of the past few weeks because- 

“Harley. It’s _snowing_.”

And Harley watched in wonderment as Peter’s words rang true in his ears. It was as if the universe had been listening to them speak— had decided they deserved a gift for their ceaseless work. Fat snowflakes fell like fiberfill from the sky, sticking to their eyelashes and dusting the shoulders of their jackets in white specks that melted almost as soon as they landed. It wasn’t sticking to the pavement- it wasn’t quite cold enough for that- but it was the first snow of the season and it made Harley hope to high heaven and hell that there would at least be a white Christmas. They deserved that.

It would be Peter’s and May’s second Christmas without Ben. 

The first, he had spent in a ball beneath his bedsheets, ignoring texts and calls from Ned and MJ and Mister Stark, his door closed to everyone and everything except for May, who held him while he lay like a cast of himself, unseeing and unfeeling, putting her own grief on the back-burner to help Peter through his.

Ben, though he had been (non-practicing) Jewish by descent, always strove to give Peter and May the most wonderful Christmas imaginable. He picked up extra hours working at the tree farm in order to save up for presents and decorations ( _I like the smell of the pines_ , he would say with a nonchalant grin and a quick wink to Peter, as if he wasn’t already working extra hours at the police station on top of it to get a piece of fine jewelry for May and a big Lego set for Peter).

Christmas was _their holiday_ , his and Ben’s and May’s. And now that Ben wasn’t there to spend it with him, all Peter could feel was his absence. Christmas songs beat to the thrum of the funeral march as Ben’s coffin was carried to the front of the cathedral. Christmas lights twinkling were the spark fading from Ben’s eyes as he bled to white in Peter’s arms. Pine was the wood of the box that sat rotting under six feet of earth, a last breath, a whisper of a man inside.

He was not looking forward to this Christmas. The break, yes. No work, absolutely. Spending time with May and his friends, sure. 

Christmas, however? No. No, Peter did not like Christmas all that much.

Harley turned and shot him a smile. “There’s your snow, Pete.”

Peter nodded, pressing his lips together into a thin line. He looked away and nudged Harley with his shoulder, wishing more than anything to get out of the snow because snow was always sitting atop Ben’s shoulders and the two of them hanging a garland from the fire escape, getting dusted white and May grumbling at them as she wiped them dry with towels.

Harley frowned. For someone who was jolly as living hell all year round, Peter was acting distinctly un-jolly. Halloween-Peter had dragged him trick-or-treating and Thanksgiving-Peter brought him to volunteer at three separate donation events with May, Tony, and Pepper. The lack of Christmas excitement was unsettling. Uncharacteristic.

He studied Peter’s expression for a long moment. Peter was readable as a book. The purse of his lip and the knot in his eyebrows, the far-away look in his eyes… 

Harley jabbed his elbow into Peter’s rib. Peter leaped as if he’d been shocked, nearly tripping over his sneakers.

“ _Gosh_ , Harley-”

“Almost lost ya,” Harley said quietly. 

“Sorry,” Peter muttered.

“Thinking?” Harley asked as if he didn’t know, slowing their walk to a more meandering pace. The cold could be braved if Peter needed him.

“Yeah.”

“Want to think out loud?”

Peter hesitated for a minute before shaking his head firmly. “I’m fine.”

Harley frowned. 

They two had built up an easy rapport. When one was succumbing to the rising tide, they went to the other, who would always have a life-preserver on hand and a towel with which to dry the other off. It was easy. 

They, however, admittedly and somewhat stupidly, had been largely avoiding the past in favor of the present.

That was the type of people they were: they held hope that ignoring the labors of their pasts would make them disappear, would minimize their effects. They were too young; they did not yet understand that turning a blind eye to something gives it the opportunity to fester, to grow, to reach out its tendrils and grasp on, rooting itself in place and slinking, slithering to choke you when you least expect it.

Peter woke in the night to crumbling plaster and water in his lungs and his own screaming voice and his spine snapping under an unbearable weight and then re-knitting itself and foreign blood staining his helpless hands and the lingering whisper of “ _then you shouldn’t have it_.”

Harley woke in the night to aching, bruised limbs and the smell of whiskey breath and wheezing “ _please, please stop, I can’t breathe_ ,” with a hand tight around his neck and Peter, Peter fucking bleeding himself white in alleys and stores and the lab and at school and places he had never even been but always, always dying in Harley’s arms.

But as far as the other knew, _they had nightmares sometimes, but they were manageable_. They were _fine_. Yeah.

Fine.

Fine, like Peter pretended to be right then, even as he was pressed into Harley’s side in the impenetrable crowd of Christmas-tourists in the city with glazed eyes and chapped lips and trembling hands-

Harley would be fine for Peter, then.

Harley would be anything for Peter.

And if that meant not asking Peter what was eating him alive… well, Harley could do that for now. _For now_. 

Not for long, not when seeing him like this made Harley’s stomach churn and blood boil with a desperate yearning to fix it, help him, make everything better.

What Harley could do, however, was distract him. So he tightened his grip on Peter and pushed them forward.

“Hey, arachnid question. Have you ever gotten sunburnt since your… accident?”

Peter shrugged. “Probably. Why?”

“Was it bad?”

“No?”

“So you didn’t peel.”

“Harley… why?”

“I’m just saying,” Harley forged on. “There’s no proof that, if you got sunburned badly enough, your enhanced rate of healing wouldn’t cause you to shed your skin like a snake. If it works fast enough, there’s no reason for the skin pieces to-”

Peter let loose a shout of laughter that seemed to surprise him just as much as it did Harley, the tips of his ears turning red with blush. “Have I ever told you that you disgust me?”

Harley grinned and poked him in the stomach. “Only every day, darlin’, every day.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the subway station, made shorter now that some of the tension had melted. Peter was still unfocused, but at least he was responding to Harley’s jokes.

Even though it had been a short time, when they got on the subway, Harley felt as if every ounce of energy had been sucked from his body through a straw and spat out. He was tired. He loved Peter, he did. But entertaining him while needing nothing more than a break, _a break, Jesus, a break, we’re on break_ , wiped him.

He leaned his head against the pole he was gripping and shut his eyes. Almost immediately he was asleep, the force of the start-and-stop tilting him side-to-side as if he were planktonic, a drifter. 

He woke with a start to Peter’s hand patting the back of his own, his keen eyes shining in the synthetic light from the winking fluorescents above them.

The lobby of the tower was decked in festive garb tip-to-toe by the time they arrived. Garlands snaked along each doorway, studded with red baubles like holly berries, bright and soft and sweet. A candle sat in each window, flames flickering gracefully. Frank Sinatra crooned over the speaker system. 

Peter lead the way across the lobby, shoulders tight. Harley frowned but followed into the elevator, picking at the skin of his thumb.

Harley tapped his fingers along his pant leg as they rode up. Pulled on his sleeves. Chewed his lip. Anything to distract himself from the deafening silence they had sank back into.

Peter yanked his hat off of his head, shaking out his curls. Silent. Shoved the hat into his pocket. Looked ahead, unseeing.

Harley’s heart ached. 

The doors opened to a welcome, albeit unusual, sight: Tony, Pepper, and May out of work, sat on the couch in matching Christmas sweaters— red and gaudy, with bright green cartoon Christmas trees dominating the middle and a star that winked with actual LED lights.

Harley blinked twice. That was the universal _help me I’m in trouble_ sign, right?

Tony immediately stood when they crested the elevator doors. “There they are. Semester one? Smashed it. Nailed your finals?” Tony gave them no chance to respond. “Knew it. My genius kids.” He threw his arms out wide, and the two of them stepped into the hug, arms jumbled and clumps of hair sticking into each other’s eyes and noses, but it was warm and comforting and Harley let out a sigh of contentment. 

_My genius kids_. Him and Peter, Tony’s kids. 

That was the softest part of Tony speaking: once you got past the layers of intrinsic distrust he had for any and all living creatures, he was a bigger sap than anyone could ever have imagined, and, as a direct result of that, was constantly reminding the boys of just how much they meant to him. It was often sweet, usually went overboard, was always overwhelming— but Harley wouldn’t have it any other way. It was nice to feel loved, to feel needed. He was sure he would never get used to the feeling.

Tony pulled away and ruffled their hair, a proud gleam in his eyes. “Are we ready for some decorating shenanigans? Maybe some cookie frosting or ornament hanging? Oh! I have a movie picked out for tonight and Rhodey is going to be back here by then so we’re gonna have a real, bonafide Christmas movie night.” Tony stopped for a breath, a smile dancing on his lips.

“Sorry about him. He’s one of those people who loves Christmas and he’s just thrilled he gets to spend it with-” Pepper broke off thoughtfully. 

“His kids,” May finished softly.

“His kids,” Tony agreed with a nod. A goofy, admiration-glazed smile. “ _My_ kids!”

“ _Our_ kids,” said May.

“Our kids,” ceded Tony.

Harley and Peter just stood and listened, small grins on their oh-so-tired faces. 

Harley walked forward and threw himself onto the floor at Pepper and May’s feet, leaning his head back against the coffee table. 

Peter stayed standing where he was, back in that far away place, behind an unbreachable gate. “Coming, Pete?” Harley asked softly. 

He startled at the words and an embarrassed flush bloomed on his nose like rose petals opening to the sun. “I, uh. I think I’m actually going to go- to go to bed for a while,” he stuttered. He raked a hand through his hair. Harley could see it tremble from where he was sitting. 

“Okay,” he said. Pepper, May, and Tony echoed the sentiment. 

Peter nodded and turned on his heel, all but running down the hallway. 

Harley turned immediately to the others. “Tell me that was weird. Tell me it wasn’t just me thinking that was weird.”

May frowned. It was the type of frown that carved lines across her cheeks and made her seem older than she really was. 

It was the type of frown that came as a result of caring deeply for Peter Parker for a very long time.

May prodded Harley with her foot. “Was he off all day?”

Harley nodded. “Hardly even reacted to the snow, which I thought he would freak over. I don’t think he’s sick, either. And finals are done, so it isn’t stress from that.” _I mean, there’s definitely Spider-Man stress and the constant stress that comes as a result of the Earth rapidly spinning around us as we grip on for dear fucking life but Peter would have told me if that was it. He would have_. 

_Would he have?_

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., my dear?” Tony called. 

“ _Yes, boss_?”

“Would you let me know if our darling Peter falls asleep? Just want to check up on him.”

“ _Yes, boss. Right now, Mr. Parker is in bed but he is not asleep_.”

“Thanks, F.R.I. Keep us updated on the squirt. Heart rate, the whole shebang.”

“ _Overbearing Quasi-Father Protocol activated, boss_.”

Tony raised his eyebrows, muttered “ _little shit must have changed the name again_ ,” and sat down heavily on the couch. He turned to the others. “I almost feel bad- like we’re spying on him- but at least this way we’ll know if things get bad again.”

May dropped a hand on Tony’s knee and squeezed. “We appreciate it, Tony.” There were a thousand unsaid words in it. It seemed as if Tony heard them all, giving May a tight smile and clapping his hand over her own.

They whiled away the afternoon drinking hot chocolate, Harley telling them about his final exams and May and Pepper giving Harley and Tony a rundown of their last business trip (to Bali, of all places, which sounded much more like a vacation than a business venture but, truly, if anyone in the world deserved a vacation it was those two women). 

It wasn’t until almost six- when they had all finally relaxed, feeling Peter must truly be resting- sure that there was nothing to worry about- when F.R.I.D.A.Y. made her announcement. “ _Boss? Mr. Parker’s current heart rate has exceeded his normal heart rate by almost 20 bpm. Based on the parameters you have set, this may be a cause for alarm_.”

Harley shot to his feet. “I’ll go,” he said quickly.

May squeezed his hand and Harley raced down the hallway to Peter’s room. 

It was eating at him. What was bothering Peter so much that he didn’t want to share it? He hadn’t seemed injured, and his past few nights of patrol had gone seamlessly. If Peter was still concerned about his finals, he would tell Harley. He would. That was the type of thing they talked about. That was easy.

But this?

He paused at the closed door, unsure of how to proceed. 

He settled for knocking, three gentle taps along the wood and a call in his most gentle voice, “mind if I come in, Pete?”

The voice that answered was so strangled that Harley’s throat ached at the sound. 

“I’m fine,” Peter said, voice like cracked glass, fissures running through it like rivers, just waiting for the pressure that would finally shatter it. Harley pressed his ear to the door just in time to pick up a desperate gasp of breath. “Don’t worry, go have fun with everyone.”

“Pete,” Harley said quietly. Beseechingly. “What’s wrong?”

“Go,” he begged. It rode a sob.

“Peter, let me help-” his head was spinning, heart pounding so hard it _hurt_ \- “let me in,” and the double entendre was not lost on either of them.

“ _No_ ,” and it was sharp, like squeezing down on staples and bleeding, feeling the blood drip warm down his hand and letting it pool in his palms and cupping it like a desperate, dirty reservoir. 

Harley’s breath stopped. He couldn’t have inhaled if he wanted to. Something blocked his throat like a fist, like a cork in a bottle, he was stoppered, he wanted to cry, to pour out— or to be the glass that could catch Peter as he poured.

“Okay,” he said, and it was a breath more than it was a word. “I’ll… if you need… me,” he stuttered, shaking his head like hell, not bothering to clarify what he meant.

Peter wasn’t listening, after all.

He walked dazed, sore as if he’d been sucker-punched, and maybe he had. He wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

Pepper, Tony, and May were whispering among themselves when Harley returned, their voices hissing like a boiling kettle and Harley’s ears were ringing too much to make out the words. 

They stopped abruptly when they saw Harley standing like a phantom in the doorway. Tony stood, taut with expectations.

“He told me to go,” Harley said, but his voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Something in Tony’s face fell. He scrubbed his fingertips over his cheeks, leaving pinkish streaks. He stepped forward to Harley, who was still standing stock-still in the doorway, feeling as if he had cinder blocks attached to the bottom of his feet like skates. One warm hand clapped to Harley’s shoulder, and the other on his jaw, running one thumb over the hard line of it.

“Thank you, kid. You did your best.”

Harley shook his head violently. “But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything, he didn’t let me help.”

Tony looked into Harley’s eyes, serious as a heart attack. “He knows you’re here for him. Sometimes that’s the most you can do.”

May rose from the couch and flanked Tony, grabbing one of Harley’s limp hands. “Peter gets like this sometimes, Harley.” Her eyes were like pools. Bottomless, and mournful. God, so melancholy that it hurt. “It’s something that we have had to get used to. It comes and goes in waves and- and sometimes it's days between, sometimes months. This time, he was lucky and it _was_ months and, God, Harley, it’s only because of you that it’s been this long. Knowing you has made him so happy. He hasn’t been so… so _lifelike_ in a long time. But that doesn’t mean he still isn’t _hurting_ -” her voice cracked on the word and Harley squeezed her hand- “beneath it all. He has a hard life. He’s endured so much, lost so much. And I know how hard that is for us to handle because we all love him, but sometimes all we can do is just… exist there. With him.”

“Knowing that he’s hurting in there but we can’t do anything to fix it…” Harley sniffled. He realized all at once that he was glazed with tears, the salt dripping into the corners of his lips and onto the neck of his sweatshirt. He raised both of his hands to his face and rubbed it hard, trying to reinvigorate himself, to shake himself out of this raw stupor. _He_ wasn’t the one hurting. And May said he needed to be here for Peter, ready, waiting. 

So he would be. 

Always, anything for Peter.

Peter didn’t come out for dinner that night, nor for _Die Hard_ with Rhodey, who had watched the movie so many times that he was capable and apt to narrate each line as it happened. 

For the span of the entire movie, Harley curled into himself in the armchair closest to the fireplace and let himself decay in its warmth, hiding behind his hair and twisting his fingers around until they were locked tightly together. He scrawled drawings onto the leather of the couch with his fingertips. He counted the number of times May snorted in laughter. He tracked the number of times he looked towards the black hallway hoping to see Peter emerging from his room with a sheepish smile painted on his face, flopping into the seat at Harley’s side and asking _what the heck was happening_ in the movie.

Needless to say, Peter never came. 

The knot in Harley’s stomach had him feeling tenser and more nauseated than he had even that morning before their exams. _Helpless_. God, so helpless.

It was uncomfortable. For his entire life he had been the one to help out with his sister, to help around the house, to cheer up his mother when she was lonely as marmalade and the harvest moon with reminders that _he_ would always be her best guy and talk her down from flashbacks of his father in the kitchen armed with a broken bottle-

But now he was out of his realm of ability. It was an unscratchable itch. And he was _lost_. 

His every muscle was clenched fit to snap, to rip apart like the strained seams of a new pair of jeans.

Pepper had just suggested moving on to _Elf_ , which Rhodey was _much less partial to, thank you very much, that’s my cue to leave_ , when Harley had enough. He shot to his feet. 

Tony, knowing exactly what was in his mind, gave a soft sigh. “Harley… buddy… I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s up to you but it’s in Pete’s best interest if you just leave him be. Not everyone handles talking about their problems well.”

Harley stared forward, steadfast. “I can’t just leave him there.”

May looked at him resignedly. “Tony… let him go. He’s the only one of us who hasn’t tried to get through to him when he’s like this. Maybe. Maybe something good will come of it.”

Tony chewed on his lip before nodding almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Just. Be careful.”

 _I would let Peter punch me full-strength straight in the face if it meant he would feel better_ , Harley thought. “Okay,” he said.

Tony and May shared a glance. “We’ll all be in our rooms if you need us, honey,” May offered him, rising. She crossed to his side, pushed his curls off of his forehead, and plopped a chaste kiss there. She then tweaked his nose and left the room, all swinging hips and bouncing curls in her hair.

He spared Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey a measly attempt at a reassuring smile and then set off towards Peter’s room, the sound of them rising and going to bed falling upon nearly deaf ears. 

Every step wavered. His pulse thrummed at double-time, a rapid march with trumpeting brass and pounding drums and crashing cymbals. The blood roared in his ears. Some clawed creature was climbing up his throat, sinking its talons into the muscle and tearing it into ribbons.

 _Just let me help him. I’ll be fine if I can help him feel more fine_.

The door was in front of him much before he was ready for it to be. He pulled one last breath in, deep, letting it fill him tip to toe. One tremulous fist raised and tapped three times on the wood. 

“Hey, buddy,” he said, hoping the moniker would soften Peter’s reaction. “Can I come in?”

There was no answer. The silence was not surprising, but was unwelcome. He waited a long moment before tentatively calling out again. “You asleep in there, Petey?”

Nothing. 

As the seconds ticked by, he felt a heat climbing into his cheeks. Was it really so hard for Peter to just give him an answer? Really? He couldn’t even make something up? Or, better: he couldn’t just admit to Harley that he _wasn’t_ okay instead of pretending closing himself behind a locked door all afternoon was acceptable behavior from a seventeen year old? What was the point of being a best friend if he wasn’t allowed to _be_ Peter’s best friend?

Did Peter really see him as so incompetent that he couldn’t imagine Harley being able to understand his pain and help him manage it?

The anxiety in Harley’s stomach was quickly boiling into something more bitter, the taste of bile burning in the back of his throat like the aborted vodka shot from that morning. 

“Fine, Peter,” he said, and the words were sharper than Harley could have anticipated. “If you really think you’re too good for my help… if you really- really think you could just. _Lie_ to me and it would be okay…” he sucked in a deep breath, “then you’re really fucking wrong. And you’re being immature.”

As soon as the words tumbled from his lips, all thick grey smoke and pungent ash, he wanted to swat them away, to let them dissipate into the air as if they had never existed in the first place.

He turned on his heel and booked it down the hallway and away from Peter’s door, swallowing hard against the vomit sitting in his throat. Now his chest was truly pounding— so aggressively that each beat was like a convulsion, as if every beat it had ever made before was only a ghost of what was coming.

He was trapped inside of himself, all bounding heart and roaring blood and shallow breaths and tremors. What he wanted more than anything in the world was to break out of the cage created by his own body, to smash through his bones with fervor and peel back his skin and melt into a puddle. God knows he deserved to suffer through living but. Escape was preferable, bearable.

Harley had hardly made it into the living room by the time he collapsed, his knees hitting the floorboards hard enough to bruise, the shock reverberating all the way up his spine like electricity through a wire. The bile in his throat continued to persist, the stinging becoming nearly intolerable. His swallows became wild, gasped, wishing nothing more than for the pain to pass.

The universe would give him no such relief. 

Peter stood in the empty doorway like a sculpture, shadows hiding his eyes and hollowing his cheeks. 

There was a long, sick moment wherein nothing was said, the only sound being Harley’s hoarse breaths.

Then, in the calmest voice Harley had ever heard Peter use, “I’m the one being immature, Harley? I’m the one pretending? When are you going to stop pretending to care about anything but your own feelings? Do you notice that your need to ‘help’ people is just a ploy to make yourself feel better?”

Harley’s blood ran cold. “Peter, I care about you more than anyone in the world. If you think I’d lie about that then you’re not only immature but an idiot on top of it.”

Peter took a sharp step forward, the light falling on his face. Harley’s chest clenched like it had been caught in a tight fist. Peter’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, his lips bitten to bleeding. His entire body was shaking like a goddamn leaf in autumn’s chilled zephyr. 

“You already thought I was an idiot. You don’t need to pretend to have a new reason-”

“Peter,” Harley said, eyes falling painfully wide. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. Never have and never will. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and I would be stupid to deny it.”

Peter was shaking his head furiously, his hair flopping into his eyes, the calm mask cracking. “Stop _lying_ , Harley, stop it. I know you think I’m stupid— God, you just don’t _get it_ and you never will-”

“Then help me to,” Harley implored, climbing to his feet and stepping closer to Peter. “Help me understand.”

“You don’t need to treat me like-”

“Like what, Peter?” Harley asked. “What am I treating you like? Someone I care about? My best friend? My _brother_? Someone I genuinely care about, no matter how much you love to deny it?”

“God, Harley,” Peter’s throat was raw, his words rough and jagged. Broken. This was it. This was truth. Harley could feel it thrumming in the air like the holy fucking spirit. “Just because you don’t have someone to watch over all the time now that you’re not with your sister doesn’t mean you need to adopt the next person you think is weaker than you! I don’t need you to mother me, _Jesus_ , I can handle myself! I’m not a project, and I’m stronger than you could ever know. Just. _Fuck off_ , Harley, fuck right off.”

Harley froze.

From the tips of his fingertips he turned to stone, to marble, cold surface and brittle bone but no flesh, no fucking blood or muscle, like a stalagmite in the middle of the goddamn living room. His chest burned, the breath punched straight out of his lungs, completely unmoving, unmovable, statue. 

Something in Peter’s expression shifted and suddenly he was horrified, eyes glistening wet and mouth tumbling open, a trembling lower lip struggling to form a desperate, gasped apology. “Harley- I didn’t- God, I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean that-”

As if his name was the trigger to the end of the spell, Harley turned on his heel and strode towards his bedroom, relieved that he scrounged up the strength from the very marrow of his bones to hold himself together until the door slammed at his heels. And, then. Only then did he fall back to his knees like a sinner at the altar of a God he had turned his back to, begging for penance, for blessings, to wash the dirt from under his nails and be _clean_ again. Every sob racked his body like thunder and he bit down hard on his knuckles to muffle the sound, choking on snot and drowning under layers of steadfast anguish.

Did missing his sister make his love for Peter lesser? Could Peter feel that withholding?

Was he really so bad at being a friend that Peter would think the only reasons he stuck around were to feel better about himself and to fill the hole leaving his sister had left?

It was not until the light coming in through his window was slanted and silver from the moon that Harley picked himself up from where he had sprawled face-down on the carpet, his head unbearably heavy and his nose completely blocked. 

He sat on the floor, leaning his back against the side of his bed, and dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing away at the salt trails and the top layers of skin alike.

He let Peter down. He let Peter down. _HeletPeterdownheletPeterdownheletPeterdown_ -

There was a knock on the door. It creaked open. 

“Hey, honey- you up to watching a movie still?” 

Harley looked up. The yellow light from the hall set an angelic glow around Pepper, shining on the red hair that cascaded down around her shoulders and she was so beautiful and wonderful it made Harley want to cry again. “I don’t want to make Peter uncomfortable if he wants to watch it,” he said, looking down ( _it was far too painful for the devil to stare at unadulterated beauty for that long_ ).

Pepper frowned, walking into the room and closing the door behind her. She flicked on the lamp on his nightstand before settling on the floor beside him. With gentle fingers she lifted his chin so their eyes locked. The way she looked at him- with pure concern and affection- made him burn, flames consuming him, he was ash, he was smoke, he was a memory.

She wiped his face with her sleeve and then, unwilling to let go of him when he looked so desperately distraught, stroked his cheek, frowning at him with pursed lips. “Brothers fight,” she said simply.

Harley shrugged because he didn’t know how to say _we can’t fight we can’t because it isn’t right it’s not natural and we hold too much power over each other we could ruin each other we’re ruining each other already_ in a way that made sense.

“I think that you both have a lot going on right now and it’s making you more stressed than usual. People fight when they’re stressed— especially people who know each other so deeply. Do you know how often Tony and I used to fight? So much. We had to get used to each other, and it’s the same for you and Peter.”

“We’ve known each other for a long time know, though. I thought we did know each other.” Harley’s every word came out muffled, the blockage in his nose keeping him from pronouncing anything right. 

Pepper leaned back towards the nightstand and grabbed the tissue box that sat on top of it, pulling one out and handing it to Harley ceremoniously. “Blow, baby.”

He did.

“Better?”

He nodded. 

“Here’s the thing. I’m about to tell you a big secret of the world so listen close. You listening?” Her eyes were keen. Harley feared he would drown if he looked into them, so he looked at the tissue in his hands. “Every day, you learn more about people. Just when you think you can’t possibly know more about them, there’s always more to find. It’s exponential. It’s like a graph with an asymptote. You can get really, really close to its value- really close to knowing everything- but you will never get there exactly. Just yesterday I learned that Tony only opens the left-side window in our bedroom. _Why the left_? I asked. He said _uh, I don’t know, I just like it better_.” 

Harley sniffed out a sad attempt at a laugh at Pepper’s exaggeratedly deep impression of Tony’s voice.

“The point is,” she continued, brushing his hair back with nimble fingers, “that sometimes there’s always more to learn about someone. Sometimes the fear of not knowing something… _inflates_ the unknown in our minds. And, frankly, I think that is the main problem here.”

Harley chewed his lip. Was he _inflating_ the issue with Peter? 

Maybe he was fine.

Who was he kidding? Peter wasn’t fine. He was far from fine. 

If Peter were fine, then he wouldn’t have spent all afternoon locked in his room and he certainly wouldn’t have stuck a knife right into Harley’s gut and twisted it as if he enjoyed watching the blood spurt.

“I don’t know how to help him feel better,” Harley said slowly, carefully, “because he won’t tell me what’s bothering him. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating this situation, either. This is just. Really unlike Peter.”

Pepper gave a soft _hmph_. “Well… do you think that- if it really is as big a deal as you’re afraid it is- maybe your other friends might have noticed too? Or maybe he felt more comfortable talking about it to one of them?”

Something clicked in Harley’s mind. “Do you think it’s something about his past that he’s upset about now? Because usually Peter tells me everything— everything except stuff that happened way before we met. I mean,” Harley scratched his nose, “to be fair, I do the same thing. We both, uh. Ignore the past when we talk to each other.”

Pepper cocked an eyebrow. “Well, then, I think that could be a reason Peter is upset. If something is bothering him and he feels like he can’t talk about it for whatever reason… it must be boiling up in him. I just hope he has someone to talk to about it.”

“May?” Harley suggested.

Pepper shrugged. “Maybe. But May has her own stresses to worry about. You know Peter. He would never put his own sadness before someone else’s happiness,” she said sagely.

Harley sat silent, studying his knuckles, the ridges of them. They were proud, tall as they summited the otherwise smooth skin of his hand. Child’s hands. 

Peter had child’s hands.

Why, why, _whywhywhy_ did they have grief up to their elbows if they were still children? Why couldn’t they grow up normal, blissfully unaware of the evils of the world with cotton candy in their souls and wildflowers in their eyes?

Pepper ran her hand through Harley’s hair once more, pushing the matted fringe out of his eyes. Her thumb traced one of his eyebrows. “You’ll be okay, Harley.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But we are.”

“Peter isn’t.”

“Oh, _Harley_ ,” she said. “Peter most of all. I can only imagine how he’s beating himself up right now. Of course, that doesn’t excuse anything he said. The only thing that could excuse it is if he apologizes and you accept the apology. But I don’t doubt for a second that he’s hurting just as much as you.”

Something in Harley’s chest was burning, his own personal piece of hell, his eternal damnation knowing that he couldn’t help his best friend, _his Peter_ , feel better. And suddenly he felt intoxicatingly alone.

“You don’t have to stay, Pep,” Harley said, wiping his face once more and clearing his throat. He just wanted to lay in bed and shatter, let the shards fall and not worry about having to pick them up. Sleep, God, he hoped. His eyelids felt like they were being pushed closed, like some frustrated deity saw him and assumed he was soulless enough to be a corpse, figured he should do the mercy of shutting his unblinking eyes for him. “I’m a big boy. I can… I can be alone,” he finished, and it would have made Pepper smile if his voice didn’t crack.

“You don’t have to be alone right now, Harley,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he said with a nod. “I just. Want to sleep it off, I think.”

Pepper looked at him, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes seeming more pronounced than usual. “Not to sound like a walking-talking-cliche but… I don’t think you two should go to bed upset at each other.”

Harley bit his lip hard. “I’ll think about it.”

She leaned forward and placed three quick kisses to the tip of his nose. Her hair smelled like lemon and Harley took a deep breath of it, let it fill his lungs and douse the kerosene fire catching in his veins. “If you want me, or Tony, or May, even, just give us a shout. Okay, honey?”

Harley nodded, looking down so she wouldn’t see the wetness building in his eyes. Nevertheless, a tear slipped off of his lashes, dripping lonesome over the curve of his cheekbone, rain on a car windshield.

He knew he wouldn’t call any of them.

“I love you, Harley,” she sang as she stood, looking sadly down at him.

“Love you too, Pep,” he answered thickly.

She left.

He didn’t cry when the door shut, this time.

Not when he had a job to do. A heavy, weighted sort of resolve settled in his veins like lead. _Fix this. Even if Peter won’t let you help, find some way to fix this_.

Instead he pulled his phone out of his pocket and carefully typed up a message.

 **the only ten-i-see**  
hey, did pete seem weird to you today? weirder than everyone else - like, we were all weird because we were tired. but he wasn’t just tired, it’s something else. 

The answer was quick as always.

 **scary michael jackson**  
he gets like this at christmas. he never, ever talks about it but it started after ben died and i have the deductive reasoning skills to put two-and-two together. i’m sure you can figure it out too. be gentle with him or i’ll rip your arms off and shove them up your ass.

 _Oh_. So it was a grief thing. One of the repressed grief things that he and Peter really, really ought to get better at sharing with each other lest they have a shouting match and both retreat to their rooms in tears again. 

Which. Well. Harley would prefer not to do that again. Ever.

But there were some things he couldn’t speak about. Not even to Peter. Not to anyone, ever. Things that were so intrinsic to who he was, so shrouded in the cage of his ribs, hidden in the shadow under his heart, that they would be graphically hideous when brought into the light. Things that had been so far from the sun for so long that they had become monstrous, hideous, ticking like the fucking tell-tale heart, black and furry with mold and pungent and crumbling to dust. Ashes to ashes to _ashes to ashes_ -

How could Harley ask Peter to bare his soul to him- the atramentous parts of his soul- when he could never reciprocate?

 _Peter will never have a piece of him become nearly as dark as you are. Not even a fraction of it. That is why it is okay for you not to share everything. It’s for Peter’s well-being, not yours. If his eyes had to look upon the ugly pieces of you, your dirty secrets had to pour out like thick, biting cigarette smoke and suffocate him in a vulgar cloud, he would be horrified. Traumatized_. 

_Would he leave you? No. And that is the worst part. Because Peter refuses to lose the things he loves, and so he will continue to let himself be around you, drag your troubles along like a ball-and-chain even as his arms are full with his own fears and burdens, God, burdens_.

 _Selfish. Sharing would be selfish_.

 **the only ten-i-see**  
okay. that actually makes a lot of sense. thanks, MJ, i’ll be good. i’m sure we’ll see you soon - pete and i have a present for you and if you don’t like it i’ll violently dispatch your soul from this plane of existence.

 **scary michael jackson**  
that’s a win-win for me, keener.

**scary michael jackson**  
have a good christmas, punk. lmk how it goes with parker. 

****the only ten-i-see**  
you too, asshole :-) and i will. **

****

Harley returned his phone to his pocket and dropped his head into his hand, biting down on a sob. 

****

Across the hall, Peter was entirely buried under his sheets. They covered his head, the air all thick and hot and he was sweating but he had to, had to do something, had to be uncomfortable or his consciousness would float away like a balloon and it would pop when it got too high and then what the hell would he do? 

****

He wanted to go home. 

****

Of course, he couldn’t be more grateful for Mister Stark inviting him and May to stay for the holiday. He hoped it would be good, it would help for him to be out of the house that still had Ben lurking around every corner like a wraith. But he found himself in a frustrating dichotomy: not wanting to miss Ben so separating himself from his memory, but missing Ben to the point of debilitation while he was away from his apartment. It wasn’t Christmas without the apartment almost as much as it wasn’t Christmas without Ben. 

****

Besides, what was Christmas more than an amalgam of nostalgia and romanticized memories held dear simply because of the beauty of the past? _Everything looks better from behind_ — something May had told him once as a joke, but he understood now. He was behind the memories, past them, looking at them through distant eyes, unfamiliar eyes, unfamiliar soul, who was he? The Peter from his memories would never recognize the Peter from today. 

****

The Peter from the past was open of mind and heart. He took pictures of everything so that he could remember seeing it rather than so he would be reminded of reasons to live. He laughed loudly and often. The idea of speaking against someone made him nauseous, and his hands were clean. 

****

The Peter from today couldn’t tell the difference between a clock and a time-bomb ( _was there a difference??_ ). He was afraid of everything he had ever touched, everyone he had ever known. He screamed at his best friend for loving him, trying to take care of him, and, God, he was afraid. He was so afraid. 

****

He was afraid that talking about Ben would open a can of worms he would never be able to close and then Harley would know everything about him. And, if Harley knew _everything_ , that would mean the last bit of that old, _happy_ Peter would be let loose. Freed. 

****

It would run away. 

****

And then Peter would be someone different entirely, chasing after the pieces of himself he let escape with desperate, reaching fingers and tears in his eyes and _that wasn’t who he wanted to be_ so, thus, he couldn’t tell Harley. 

****

But he was dually afraid that not telling Harley would push him away, if he hadn’t already done a good enough job of that on his own. 

****

They didn’t talk about the past. 

****

Peter wondered. Harley wondered. But they didn’t talk about it. 

****

They were both cowards. 

****

They knew it. 

****

The Peter of today kinda wanted to jump off the fucking Brooklyn bridge and the thought of it made every nerve in his body light up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza and he wanted to snuff it out because it was too hot and it burned it _burned_ to be covered in lights and he wanted it to stop and his thoughts were getting louder they were screaming at him in full voices like _we are here we are here we are here_ and he was clawing at the skin of his own arms to escape it and all he did was hurt people so he should, too- 

****

His door opened. 

****

The voice that floated towards him at once set his teeth on edge and relaxed the knots in his heart. He peeked out from under his sheets to better hear it. 

****

“I would have knocked but that didn’t go so well last time.” It was a sorry effort at a joke but Peter shot a weak smile at Harley anyway, recognizing the peace offering. 

****

It took a moment for Harley to spot Peter as buried as he was in his blankets. When he did, he almost wished he hadn’t. Peter’s face was splotchy like a summer peach and he was trembling so forcefully that his curls danced against his forehead from it. 

****

Neither spoke for a long minute. Then, “you can come in,” Peter whispered, voice husky through his raw throat. 

****

Harley hesitated. “Are you sure?” 

****

Peter nodded, though his every nerve ending screamed for him to beg Harley to leave him alone, to let him be. 

****

Each of Harley’s footsteps fell as light as midnight tip-toes. He was, above all else, cautious, consumed with a near-paralyzing terror of shattering the strange civility he and Peter were fostering. 

****

Peter pushed himself up to sitting, the air cold against his feverishly warm skin. 

****

Harley choked, crossing the rest of the room in two long strides. The bed sank with his weight as he collapsed at Peter’s side. “Oh, _Pete_ , buddy, did you do that?” 

****

Peter frowned, confused. “What?” 

****

With a twitching hand, Harley picked up Peter’s forearm as gently as if it were made of stitched-together pieces of sharp-edged glass and tissue paper. He brushed ghost fingers over the skin, each red scratch an impetus to a pang in his own heart. The skin was pockmarked with red half-moons from Peter’s nails and there were drops of maroonish blood weeping from some of the abrasions. 

****

“Oh,” Peter said. “ _That_.” 

****

“Yeah, _that_ ,” Harley repeated weakly. 

****

“They’re nothing. They’ll be gone in ten minutes.” 

****

“That doesn’t make them nothing, Peter, God. Why did you- why did you- why did you do that?” 

****

Peter stared at him evenly. “I hurt you so I had to make it even.” 

****

That was it. 

****

The proverbial back-breaking piece of straw. 

****

Harley shattered. His eyes crinkled shut and a sob ripped itself free of his chest, shaking his whole body as it escaped like a prison break, and more followed, all of the inmates rushing out while they could, while the fucking guard was preoccupied because _Peter hurt himself because you were hurt and that is not okay_. 

****

Peter’s eyes opened wide as pennies, his hands reaching urgently to pull Harley into his chest, shoving Harley’s face flush against the skin of his neck, feeling Harley’s tears drip onto his shoulders and his nose squish against him and Harley climbed so close to Peter, clawing at the back of his shirt to pull him even nearer, that the taller boy was all but perched in his lap. The sound of Harley’s sobs- the feral despair of them- was like burning to Peter. Like being laced around a stake and set alight; a beacon, a candle, a voracious beastly entity. Before he knew it, he, too, was sobbing, earth-shaking, cries like tsunamis and smashing tectonic plates and ice storms. 

****

Harley was curled nearly into a ball, shuddering, one of Peter’s legs bent on either side of him, the grip of his knees the only thing keeping him from crumbling into pieces, irreparable. 

****

It was like they were, for a moment, one. Two parts of one whole, even as they were falling apart. Perhaps their broken fragments were being picked up by the other; perhaps they needed to fracture in order to fix themselves, a piece of Harley and a piece of Peter fitting together along their snaggy edges. 

****

As their sobs petered out into something less delirious, they slipped into an entirely different mode, each uncontrollably drivelling apologies that ran in circles like shopping carts with broken wheels. 

****

“ _Peter I’m despicable for trying to force you into talking about whatever it is_ -” 

****

“ _I never once believed anything I said about you and I never will but it gets hard for me to understand why you haven’t left yet_ -” 

****

“ _I’m never going anywhere, I’m sorry for making you afraid that I will_ -” 

****

“ _You mean so much to me and I never want to hurt your feelings again_ -” 

****

“Peter Benjamin,” Harley said, and his voice was choked. He contemplated pulling away to meet Peter’s eyes but the prospect of it sent panic sharp through his bones so he settled for clinging on even tighter, his fingertips pressing bruises into Peter’s spine. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier. This is my fault. I’m just not used to not being able to _help_ and you were right to call me out for it. I need to get over it.” 

****

Harley could feel Peter shaking his head. “No- no, Harley, it’s my fault for being like this in the first place.” 

****

“Being like what?” 

****

“Shutting you out,” Peter said, “when you don’t deserve it. I’m just. Not good. At talking about it.” 

****

“That’s okay,” Harley replied. “You don’t have to.” 

****

“No,” Peter said, suddenly frustrated. He pulled away from Harley, looking intently at him. “No. That’s the whole problem. I do have to. You deserve to know. And,” he plowed on, seeing Harley was about to dispute, “I want to tell you. I want you to understand because then everything will be easier but, at the same time, I’m terrified-” his voice cracked and he looked down, tears pooling all over again- “terrified of telling you.” 

****

Harley lifted Peter’s chin with a finger. He searched Peter’s eyes. “What about it scares you?” 

****

Peter’s jaw clenched. “If I tell you this then it’ll be like a geyser and I’ll never be able to stop talking about everything bad that has ever happened to me instead of just forgetting it happened.” 

****

“Is not talking about it helping you forget it?” 

****

“No,” Peter admitted. 

****

Harley shifted his weight, pressing closer to Peter and resting his forehead against Peter’s shoulder. “Maybe if you take it slow, then we can… do a little bit at a time. Just the stuff you want to tell me. It doesn’t have to be now, but… Pete, I just don’t want you holding it all in. We both have to get better at that,” Harley said, nudging Peter’s neck with his nose. “We both hold in too much and that’s what lead to today. The, y’know. Yelling. Waterworks, etc.” 

****

Peter blew out a long breath and dropped his chin on top of Harley’s head. “You’re right.” 

****

Harley felt relief flow through him so quickly that his limbs went numb with it. He sagged, his full weight catching Peter off guard and sending them both tumbling backwards onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Peter let out a puff of air as Harley’s elbow found his stomach, Peter’s knees in Harley’s ribs. 

****

There was a moment of silence before they both burst into laughter— the kind that stemmed straight from the pits of their stomachs, like bells and buttons and thunder and fireworks and ferry horns and the song of the ice cream truck. They lay there interlaced, cackling, mirth in their eyes. 

****

Until they were both sobbing once more, clutching at each other’s clothes tight enough to rip, shuddering, and so, so empty. 

****

Once they had cried themselves out again, Harley sniffled, “let’s please never fight again,” sounding younger than he ever had. 

****

Peter dropped a hand into Harley’s curls. “Never ever.” 

****

“Pinky promise?” 

****

Harley tucked his chin so he could meet Peter’s eyes. He lifted his pinky ceremoniously, holding it out to Peter. Something in Peter’s eyes softened and he wrapped his finger tight around Harley’s, shaking them. 

****

Peter then dropped his gaze, nervous tension flowing through him. “So.” 

****

“So?” 

****

“I don’t like Christmas.” 

****

“I gathered,” Harley said, looking at Peter as evenly as he could manage to as his blood roared like tsunami waves through his veins. “Why don’t you like Christmas?” 

****

Harley watched Peter’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed repeatedly. It was a long moment before Peter could say, “Christmas is hard because it used to be May, Ben’s and my favorite holiday and now I can’t get through it without missing him more than anything.” 

****

“So you’re closing yourself off to mourn him alone?” 

****

“Yes,” Peter said, “so that I don’t bother anyone or make May sadder. Because it’s not like anyone could fix it. And, besides,” Peter sucked in a shuddering breath, “it would feel disrespectful not to- it would be rude of me to- forget him. To pretend everything is okay.” 

****

The words stung Harley’s heart because Peter believed them. He really believed that it would be discourteous to his uncle to _enjoy_ a day that used to be his favorite now that he was gone. “Pete,” he said gently as he could, “do you think Ben would want you to spend the entire time drowning in how much you miss him? Do you think that forcing yourself to be miserable alone would be more… I don’t know, _gracious_ to him? I can’t say for sure because I never met Ben, but if he’s anything like the way you describe him then I can’t imagine he would be offended by you searching for happiness and peace. I think he probably wants that for you more than anything.” 

****

Peter chewed his lip. “But the problem is that. It’s. Not like I’m choosing to mourn him like this. I truly can’t help it. It’s like I can’t do anything. I can hardly breathe because the air is too thick and hurts my chest. Taking a shower is impossible. Getting out of bed is… unthinkable. I can’t even do things that are supposed to be easy. I can’t, Harley. I turn into a frickin’ ghost, and, more than anything, I refuse to burden everyone else by making you all put up with me like that. It’s best I just… ride it out alone.” 

****

Harley ached. “Being around you, even while you’re hurting, could never be a chore for us. We care about you, buddy, we really do. And I know sometimes your brain likes to tell you that we don’t, that you’re annoying us when you ask us to be with you or when you need help doing something that is ‘supposed to be easy.’ But there will never be a moment wherein we won’t be willing and happy to be with you, no matter how you feel. If being around any of us would make it easier to get through it, then you can tell us. Me, May, Tony, Pepper— we’re all here for you, always.” 

****

Tears had begun to drip slowly out of the corner of Peter’s eye once more. Harley frowned and swiped them away with his thumb. Peter wiped his nose on his sleeve and sighed. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I’m really, really sorry I’ve made everything so difficult.” 

****

“I made everything equally as difficult as you did. We were bound to find our limits eventually. Now we finally have, and we know better for next time. Yeah?” 

****

“Yeah.” 

****

“Okay,” Harley said, and his lips quirked up slightly. He was mad with the relief that came with understanding Peter just a bit better. Armed with the things that would aid him in helping Peter, he felt braver. More at ease. 

****

“Y’know,” Peter said, hooking an ankle around Harley’s, “I think you ought to tell me something about you as a trade.” 

****

Harley blanched, pulling away from Peter slightly. 

****

Peter immediately reached out and gripped Harley tighter. “ _No no no not now if you don’t want to but eventually don’t go please don’t leave me_ -” 

****

Harley breathed heavily and nodded, his head suddenly heavy with exhaustion. “Okay, Pete,” he said. “Not today, but sometime.” 

****

Peter nodded, shoving his face into Harley’s shoulder. _Sometime_. In that promise was another promise: one that decidedly sang out their absolution like a psalm. _Sometime_ in the future they would grow even more. Always looking forward, yes, but perhaps doing so by allowing a glimpse into each other’s past. 

****

Sometime. 

****

**Author's Note:**

> hello folks comments and bookmarks are what keep me alive and writing so like... drop those honey bunches of oats


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